


primum non nocere

by pariahpirate



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: 30 year-long naps, Ardyn is exceptionally spiteful, For Want of a Nail, Gen, Healer!Ardyn, alternative universe, pissing ON astrals, pissing off astrals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-19 15:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9448982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pariahpirate/pseuds/pariahpirate
Summary: The Gods clearly underestimated him in the sense that when they told him that he was fated to bring death and ruin to the world he very clearly turned around and took a metaphorical piss on their metaphorical graves, because though he's childish and petty, Ardyn Lucis Caelum is ahealerand as a healer, it is his solemn duty todo no harm





	1. prevention is preferable to cure

Ardyn Lucis Caelum will never be placed in a Royal Tomb, just as he will never be hailed as a hero by his people. Izunia and the Gods will see to it that his existence is properly doctored in time, he is sure of it. He will not be remembered as a Lucian King, no matter how prosperous his short reign was. He will not be remembered as a hero of the common people, spending more time in their villages and towns than the damn Oracle. He will not be remembered as a healer, fighting the resurgence of Starscourge with everything he had - magic and training both. He will not be remembered at all. Erased from history, erased from their family tree, he’s a blight to the world. Ardyn the  _ Accursed _ , the very evil that the Chosen King would come to purge. Such was the prophecy Bahamut gave. Ardyn knew the words well.

The Chosen King would come, anointed by the Crystal and the Blessings of the Six, to cut him down because he is The Accursed and according to the prophecy, The Accursed will bring the world to Ruin and Darkness. Hence the whole being-saved-by-the-Chosen-King thing. He is The Accursed. The Gods have spoken. They have barred him from the Astral Realm, they have barred him from his throne (well, that was Izunia, but it’s not Izunia’s fault. It’s Bahamut’s fault for revoking Ardyn’s claim and dumping it on his brother).

It’s a real pity. Really. Truly. That whole three-century old prophecy. All the fancy scripture, the rhyme schemes and lavish calligraphy and false hope that rides along with that three-century old prophecy, all for naught. Songs and paintings of the Fated Dawn and the mysterious Chosen King, all garbage. If the Astrals wanted their oh-so-important prophecy to be fulfilled and the Accursed to actually bring darkness and ruin to the world then maybe, perhaps, it would have been better if they selected somebody else. For all their omnipotence and ethereal wisdom, selecting him was a terrible mistake.

He is supposed to be the Accursed. The right hand of Ifrit. The harbinger of darkness. The daemon king that swallows the sun. He is supposed to curse humanity and bring it all to ruin. He is supposed to spread the Starscourge with each breath and every step, further corrupting the world and its inhabitants, just as the Traitor God wished it so long ago.

But the Gods chose a king.   
  
(Ardyn has known since he was small that his life was never his own, and it never would be. Ever since he came up to his father’s knee and gripped the silk pant leg of his left side with chubby fingers, he had stood by his father’s side as he gave speeches. He has seen the seas of faces, the oceans of bodies. Lucian citizens. Lucian subjects. His father’s people.  _ His people _ . His life has always been theirs. He was born royal, but his duty is to serve. His duty has always been to serve.)

But the Gods chose a Lucis Caelum.

(He has held magic at his fingertips for so long. Power has always thrummed in his veins. He has always had the capability to hurt but he knows his heritage. His ancestors fought alongside the gods in the War of Old. He knows all their stories. He knows they all devoted their lives to their people. Protecting them and protecting the Crystal for the coming of the Chosen King.)

And above all

The Gods chose a  _ healer _ .

( _ primum non nocere _ , says the Oath.  _ First _ , Ardyn whispers, _ do no harm _ .)


	2. in whose steps I walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever been so mad that you sleep for 60 years?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so if u guys were motivated by spite alone through a lonely immortal existance what would u do. im asking for a friend

The first thing Ardyn does with his immortal, corrupted body is hire a fisherman to ferry him out to the famed island just beyond Galdin Quay and leave him there. 

Finding somebody, anybody, to take him out to the island at this time of year is a trial in itself. Winter approaches, and with Shiva’s winds come the most brutal of sea storms. The waters are rough and choppy and slate-grey. All seafaring folk know the fish have retreated deeper to avoid the stirring storms. All the seafaring folk know the winter ocean is dangerous. 

He finds a man who will take him. An old man with silver hair and leathery skin, tanned and weathered by years under the scorching sun. His accent and freckled cheeks place him as a Nif, which explains his general disposition - poor, desperate, and frowned upon. He agrees to take Ardyn to the island and to pick him up too, and for the ridiculously low price of 300 gil.

Ardyn hands him his whole pouch of gil. He knows this man’s story, accustomed to the tales of the common folk as he is. He’s become genre savvy in the saddest of ways. The man likely lost everything and came to Lucis for a fresh start, and found nothing. Nothing but more suffering, harsh and cold.

“The rest is incentive to forget me.” Ardyn says, pulling his hat brim lower. He hasn’t felt any sharp glares on his back, only the average wary glance. The old fisherman says nothing. He squares his shoulders in a painfully familiar way and offers a feeble salute. So he had been a soldier. A very sad life, this man once led.

Ardyn follows the fisherman to his boat, and he cannot help it. He cannot suppress the reflex that years of healing has instilled in him. He can’t stop the doctor’s eye and critical analysis of the body in motion. Something deep inside Ardyn burns. Twists. Aches.He cannot fix the man’s limp. He cannot fix the slow, measured way the old fisherman takes in his surroundings. He cannot fix the way this man views the world. The injuries are too old, and they have long since healed. Healed wrong, but healed over. He cannot help without breaking the bones again, and he cannot do this. He can’t.

(He healed a woman on his way to Galdin Quay. She had screamed in pain. He had to bite his tongue from doing the same. It hurt so much to heal when it had never hurt before. The woman recovered perfectly. The bones of her broken leg once more whole, shredded flesh knitted together flawlessly - as if the beast had never attacked her in the first place. It was only when he bid the woman a farewell that he noticed his cheeks were wet with tears.) 

But there are things he can fix.

The boat is a simple vessel, home to the stench of fish and carefully woven nets. Ardyn sits at the bow and watches the island draw closer. The old fisherman’s clothes are threadbare. It’s very obvious that he doesn’t have warmer clothes. That he’s currently wearing all he has. Ardyn makes his decision as the boat draws as close to the island as it can, a dozen or so feet away.

“The winter months will be upon us soon. Take this.” Ardyn says, shrugging off his heavy coat as he stands. He holds it out to the old man. He hopes his expression of insistence is the regal one, the one that does not allow room for refusal. Ardyn himself had never mastered it, but Izunia had - and they share the same face. So he is, at the very least, probably close.

Not close enough, though, as the old fisherman hums and shakes his head and tries to refuse. His voice is thin and reedy, and Ardyn’s trained ears can detect the rattle of a growing cough in his lungs. The man is not sick now, but he will be and winters can be as cruel as the gods. He needs the coat much more than Ardyn. 

After all, it’s not like he can die from exposure. He’s immortal.

“I insist.” Ardyn says, and the fisherman protests and Ardyn loses his terribly short healer’s temper and forces it into the man’s hands before jumping off the portside into the icy water and wading his way to the rocky island shore, leaving the man no choice but to accept the gift.

He stands on the shore, waving goodbye to the old fisherman. He catches himself offering up a prayer for his health and stops, mid-thought, to grimace and spit on the rocky beach of Galdin’s island. The gods are cruel and care not. He shouldn’t waste his breath asking them for favors, or to spare the lives of others. He shouldn’t waste his breath on them at all.

Bastards.

He draws a simple bedroll from his pack, laying it out right in the center of the fabled cave - the exact place where the Chosen King of legend and promise was to awaken to rid the world of him,  _ Ardyn the Accursed _ . He sneers and scoffs and spits on this so-called holy ground. Let his presence defile this place. Let his  _ tainted, corrupted soul _ ruin this sacred ground. He doesn’t give a fuck. What are the gods going to do to him?   
_ Kill him? _

He has devoted his entire life to serving the people. Now the gods stand before him, curse his name and the gifts they gave him, and say that he will spend the rest of his life undoing everything. Undoing his life’s work, bit by bit. Life by life. Saved to doomed.

Fuck that and fuck them.

 

 

 

He’s going to take a nap.

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

He sleeps for thirty years.

Wakes up, bleary eyes finding the sun at mid-noon’s position in the summer sky. He frowns. No, no, he’s still angry. Still bitter. Still petty.

So he rolls over   
and sleeps for another thirty.


	3. warmth, sympathy, and understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His name is Yuel Aldercapt, and he gives Ardyn hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys accidentally get some plot. I have not slept in 3 days. I hope this chapter makes sense

Immortality has made him even more terrible at telling time. Before the tragedy struck him, before he was cast out and away from everything he knew and everyone he loved, hours would fly by. Entire days would be lost to his time-consuming studies, and, when he became of age, to travel and his life’s work. He was a Healer and a doctor. It made  _ sense _ .

Now - now it’s different. Days were like water. Entire decades would pass before he would remember the day of the week. The rise and fall of the sun and moon held no power over him. All he had was his body. When it screamed for rest, he rested. When is begged for food, he fed it. How long he slept, how much he ate - such amounts meant nothing in the end. 

Years pass like breezes. Decades begin to feel like water, slipping through his cupped fingers. Like water, he eventually becomes. He supposes it’s a consequence of being his mother’s son. A consequence of being a child of Lucis and Accordo, blessed ( _ cursed _ ) with both Regal birthrights. He dons and sheds name, slipping through identities like water through cracks, and thinks nothing of it. It becomes so easy.

 

And then he makes a mistake. The best mistake.

  
  
  
  
  
  


He falls in love. (He always had a weak heart.)

 

Ardyn is maybe, probably three centuries old. He’s seen several generations rise to fight the world with bright hope and life. He can already see the Astrals work paying off in the new generations. Not a soul knows his name. He has been stripped of his place in the Lucis Caelum family tree. No portraits of him exist.

And yet, one day, milling about some no-name marketplace in rural Tenebrae, he meets a young man who knows his name.

His real name.

“Ardyn Lucis Caelum~” The young man all but sings, all smiles and sunshine and stars glittering on his cheeks in the form of Niflheim freckles. Ardyn is utterly enraptured and taken aback so quickly his entire essence might as well be goo. 

“I’m afraid you-” The lie starts on his tongue, but the blonde man before him tuts and grins. With a waggle of his finger, shaming Ardyn like he’s some child, he meets his gaze and bows. Amber eyes meet vibrant green - green that flickers gold and stunning, with a symbol Ardyn has not seen in  _ centuries _ .

Before him is a  _ Seer _ . 

By the Lady, he thought the Astrals had struck down all the Seers, just as they had stuck down all the Healers, leaving only Bahamut’s favorites continue their lines of magic. He has trouble breathing, has trouble believing. He hasn’t so much as heard a whisper of the Lady’s Folk in decades. He thought the Astrals had finally erased her presence from the world.

“I’m glad I caught you!” The Seer says, and Ardyn is struck by how bright and endless this man is. He’s dressed oddly, a mess of expensive clothing laid below cheaper wools and layers, and the most ridiculous hat. He winks, “None of those false identities, good sir. I’ve Seen through them all.”

His name is Yuel. Yuel Aldercapt, youngest son of the Niflheim line of kings, and the only one of his generation to inherit the Seer’s magic. He’s childish and excitable and damn alive. He is everything that the Goddess Etro is fabled to covet. He is the freshest breath of air, the crispest spring morning, and a million other overly-ornate sentiments better found in tombs of poetry than on the lips of  _ Ardyn the Accursed _ .

(He may have rebuked the Astrals for their decision, but that does not stop the self-hatred that crawls in his bones during his points of weakness.)

The very best part?

  
  


He loves Ardyn back.

“I know who you are.” Yuel will say on the bad days, when the daemons under his skin, the darkness in his veins, squirms and screams. Yuel will brush his red-violet hair from his face and pepper his face with the softest of feather kisses. “I have seen you, Ardyn. I know you. You are a good man.”

In time, Ardyn learns to differentiate between  _ see _ and  _ See _ . It’s in the way Yuel’s lips will quirk, in the way his eyes sparkle, like it’s some personal joke. He likes to play with his words, the youngest prince does. It’s become something that Ardyn loves. Something he’s learned to do fairly well, under the warm smiles of the man he has grown to adore.

They conspire to rewrite fate. To break the prophecy of the Astrals. 

It’s all Yuel’s idea. Naturally. Ardyn had been content to life for all eternity, wandering the ever-changing world. Fighting the Scourge whenever it reared its sickening head. Cutting down daemons. Learning and improving the field of medicine because  _ he is and will always be a healer _ .

But Yeul - Yuel made him dream bigger. Made him something more than passive spite and veiled pain. Made him hope again.

“Are you sure about this?” He asks, turning to his closest companion. He knows the price of Lucian magic. He knows the price of Accordian magic. He knows the price of Tenebrae magic. Going by that trend, he’s very certain he knows the exact price, the exact weight, of Niflheim magic. He knows. The price is steep, always stained with Etro’s hands.

Yuel laughs. “I have been ready for this ever since I first saw you.”

It is years after Yuel is dead and gone, that Adryn realizes that Yuel didn’t mean  _ saw _ . He meant  _ Saw. _ This revelation burns worse than any darkness ever could. The implications are as endless as the stars, because after so much time with Yuel, Ardyn knows how it all works. He knows that Seers can scry, can poke into the future by concentrating. He knows that if they will it so, with enough of their life placed before them as an offering, they can even shift the tides of fate.

But most of all, Ardyn knows that most visions come and are inevitable. Yuel confessed that he had Seen Ardyn. He had Seen countless things, all of them coming into fruition because destiny leaves nothing to chance. The insecurities that Ardyn never managed to soothe rise up in him again, and this time there is no Yuel to fight them off. To kiss them away.

He learns, in time, to trust in Yuel’s love. In Yuel’s sacrifice. In the years to come, he learns how little intentions mean in the long run. He learns that it is the actions that matter most, and Yuel had given his life for this. For Ardyn.

  
  


In the coming years, the anthology they wrote becomes known as the Cosmogony and all but the first two books become lost. It is work of the Astrals and their messengers, sent out in the world to rid it of the truths and lies that the mysterious scholar Nadir had written on magic-kissed pages. Adryn carries no illusions. He knows why the anthology is broken and purged. It is because the words written in the last books thrum with ancient power that transcends that of the Astrals, a power they cannot control, nor can they rescind. 

The reason is written in the pages. Something the Astrals loath to admit, it seems. They’ve grown too fond of human worship, bloated from the strength that mortal belief grants them. Cruel beings, undeserving of the title of  _ gods _ , but Yuel and Ardyn had written the truth of the world in the pages of their anthology.

Bahamut had given Lucis the ability to protect. Given Tenebrae the ability to purify. Given Accordo the ability to heal. But Bahamut did not give Niflheim the ability to see. No, the bloodline of Seers transcends all, found written in ancient texts, half-corrupted, that retell snippets of Solheim’s accomplishments and life - and what those texts all lead to, what they all say, is that the ability to See was bestowed to an ancient clan by the Lorn Goddess Etro, one of the  _ true _ gods of Eos.

Yuel had written it. He had Seen and Scryed and Altered. Sacrificed his life’s essence for it. He had smiled so brightly when they finished the anthology.

“It’s not much. I do not have much strength or sway of the tides of fate-” Yuel murmurs as he closes the burgundy leather cover of the final book.

“More than most.” Ardyn interrupts, teasingly, but his eyes are soft. Soft and warm, and brimming with tears left unshed because for the first time in ages, there is hope blooming in his chest.

Yuel’s smile is the warmest of summer days, “It is enough. Resign yourself not to despair. Your fate is yours.”

 

Time flows. It washes over Ardyn like the coming tides. It isn’t very long until only one full set of the Cosmogony remain untouched by the Astrals hands. The set that Ardyn keeps with him, close to his heart, at all times.

  
  
  


Yuel had written it.

  
And so it shall be.


End file.
